


The Paper Mill

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Nepotism, Power Dynamics, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: The scandal if anyone knew. The Starks' second and command having done – what, exactly? – to their son and heir.





	The Paper Mill

**Author's Note:**

> Kink generator provided: orgasm denial + daddy themes. Which, I'm not sure this quite fits either of those, but since I'm not writing to a prompt an actual person gave me I suppose it doesn't matter.

It's all very normal, really. All paper and staplers and brightly coloured ties among drab rooms, the same as any office building. Outside a slow, repetitive drizzle fogs up the windows, just as it has all day – heavy enough to be inconvenient, but not yet heavy enough to be called proper rain. Robb's hair is still a little wet from the morning.

Rickard from accounts comes up to him while he's trying to have a cup of tea, throws a folder on his desk. “Could you get that to your father?” he asked, annoyed by Robb's very presence. Robb nods along, valiantly taking hold of the folder in the forlorn hope he might be able to understand it. Officially, he's no more than an intern at this company, same as any of the dozens they employ – but everyone knows better. He's not some intern, he's the Stark son and heir, and for better or for worse he'll be in charge of them all someday. He hopes it's for better. He supposes he won't know for a long time. For now, he's just a stupid kid barely out of school, trying to get an understanding of what he's being trained for before he's sent off to uni, and for the most part failing.

He knows his mother doesn't like it. She's tried, in her own way, to point out to his father that he's still young, and it's his gap year, for god's sakes, he ought to be off exploring the world, exploring himself, not being shepharded into the role of CEO before he even knows what that means. She'd never admit it, but Robb thinks Mum wants him to have more freedom in his life than she did.

To be fair, he doesn't think Dad likes it either. But it is how it is – this company is older than either of them, and the family heir has to be the head of it, that's just how it is. Dad was never meant to take that role, it only happened because of Uncle Brandon's accident. Robb's long since grown used to the quiet pain on his face every time he's forced to lay even a single employee off, and dreads the day he has to feel the same way.

But it's Stark family tradition, and Robb would rather die than let his father down.

Or so you'd think, anyway.

“Stark?” Rickard is gone, and a voice, much quieter and softer, makes Robb jump. He knows that voice. It's always that voice. He looks up, and feels very much the new kid, nervous and unsure.

“Mr. Bolton,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat. His father's dedicated, long-serving – and yet, having never quite earned the distinction of loyal – second in command. The vice president. A strange man, intimidating, and Dad never gave the impression of liking him much. It's quite possible he only keeps his job because he can do all the cruel parts of it that Dad hates.

Robb never knew the man very well before he came to work here, but he's grown more familiar over the past few months. And yet somehow, not at all.

Bolton gives him that same look he always does, the blank, impenetrable one that could mean anything at all. “I wish to speak with you in my office,” he says, and Robb, nodding again, gets to his feet. “Bring the folder.”

He bites his lip. _That's really not necessary,_ he could say. After all, his father's only out of town for a few days. Bolton's in charge while he's gone, but still, Robb doesn't think it couldn't wait (though to be fair, he hasn't had time to read it yet). But that's not what's going to happen. He takes the folder and trudges along obediently, his pulse racing. He reminds himself that this looks totally innocent, the boss's son and the boss's right hand man having a little talk in the boss's office. Everyone else in the building might grumble and moan, but they won't – they won't be _suspicious._

Bolton opens the door for him and Robb instinctively shuts the blinds behind him, which maybe is a little suspicious, but he refuses to think on it anymore. Pretending his hands aren't shaking, he outstretches the folder toward the older man. “Is this what you wanted – sir?” Is he meant to call him sir? Or does that sound too sycophantic?

Part of him feels almost treacherous, giving the information that's meant for his father so easily to another man, in Dad's own office no less. He shakes the thought away. Roose Bolton is Dad's right hand man after all, he would have found out anyway. And it's not like it's some secret, it's just accounts business. Robb cannot possibly be blamed for giving Bolton _that_.

Silently, Bolton takes the folder off him, eyes grazing over it a couple of seconds. He looks profoundedly disinterested. “Tell me,” he says, putting the folder neatly aside. “What is this about?” Robb blinks. He hesitates, trying to remember what little he gleamed, but Bolton doesn't give him the chance. “You don't know,” he concludes in a way that almost sounds smug.

Robb's temper flares. “I've only had it for about two minutes,” he point out. “Have you memorised every detail yet, sir?”

Bolton raises an eyebrow, and Robb looks down at the floor, ashamed. Of course, most of the interns wouldn't speak to their boss in such a way. But Robb knows he can get away with it. Ought he feel ashamed of that? “No, but that's not what I meant,” Bolton says, as if he's explaining the most obvious thing in the world. “I merely meant that you did not think you needed to read it, before you gave it to me.”

That leaves Robb struggling. How is he meant to answer that? Is he meant to answer that? He looks back up, and sees the man put the folder aside, revealing it for the empty pretext it is. “Come here.”

Robb knew this would happen. He wanted this to happen. And yet, he draws himself tighter against the wall, putting as much space between them as possible. “I would rather not.”

Mr. Bolton simply looks at him blankly. A few seconds more, and Robb would come crawling, he knows he would. “Very well.” The man comes to him.

Robb turns his head, avoiding meeting the man's eye as their bodies almost collide. The movement bares his neck, and Robb shudders as the strange coolness of Bolton's body approaches his own, flushing hot. It could remind you of a vampire, but Robb is not just a boy he still believes in monsters. Besides, he can feel Bolton's breath down his collar.

He grazes his fingers behind him, maybe leaving scratchmarks on the wooden door – he doesn't want to check. He could reach for the handle, but he won't.

This has been going on awhile. It's not an affair. It's not even really a flirtation, for how few words have been exchanged. And yet...

Robb gasps at the first tiny brush of skin against his own; a smooth, square thumb placed along his inner forearm, his shirtsleeves pushed up long before he even came in here. Bolton traces delicate patterns along the pale skin, and despite himself, Robb can't help spying the movement out of the corner of his eye. He bites his lip as his body runs hotter.

He is aroused, they both know perfectly well he's aroused, and neither of them is ever going to fucking mention it. Robb doesn't know if Bolton is aroused in turn, and he thinks maybe he doesn't want to know. But it seems beneath him, somehow.

Bolton swaps his thumb for his forefinger and traces it further up, over the fabric of his shirt and tracing the line of his bicep, the muscle still firm from all his years of school sport. Robb muffles a groan. If his body arches up toward the touch, writhing like he thinks it's in Bolton's nature to cut the pretense as sate him properly, he does his best to ignore that fact. As long as he acts as if this is not happening, then as far as anyone knows, it isn't.

The hand crosses his shoulder and drifts across his neck, the cool palm holding Robb's bobbing adam's apple for a moment. Robb thinks that Bolton could go further, could take him by the throat and choke him, if he wanted. He shudders. His body bursts with sweat and the windows outside fill with drizzle – the room is so quiet, there's only the sound of drops upon the glass and the photocopiers outside to listen to. That, and his own needy, loud panting.

The hand reaches for the knot of his tie. It shifts it back and forth a moment, teasing the idea of undoing it, but Robb knows Bolton never will. Undressing him is not Bolton's M.O.

Bolton's hand moves further down and touches his chest, squeezing lightly. Robb almost moans aloud as the knuckles graze against his nipple, and there's a shake in the hand then, almost like a laugh. Then, further. The hand moving lower and lower, tracing down to the base of Robb's abdomonen, getting so close, so close to...

But this has happened before, so Robb is not surprised, or even really disappointed when Bolton bypasses his now-aching cock completely, instead placing both hands on either one of his thighs, rubbing up and down, up and down gently. Robb shudders again.

It's the closest thing he's going to get to being touched properly, sexually. It could not be explained away as innocent. But Robb knows Bolton too well to think the man would ever give him more than this one fleeting glimpse of depravity.

He does want more. He's eighteen years old and full of hormones, of course he does – he wants to be turned around and fucked from behind over his own father's desk, nasty and dirty and tacky, everything of which his family would never approve. But he feels foolish – childish – for it. He's sure Bolton does not lust after him. Whatever reasons the strange man has for doing this, he doubts that's one of them.

_The scandal if anyone knew,_ Robb thinks, not for the first time. The Starks' second and command having done – what, exactly? – to their son and heir. How would Bolton explain it, if Father somehow found out? He may well pretend it never happened at all. Just a few innocent touches, spun into wild fantasy by adolescent need. Sometimes Robb wonders if it is just that. Sometimes it all feels so dreamlike he thinks he's about to wake up at his desk, having dozed off over boring spreadsheets.

He does not think his father would ever buy that excuse though. If he knew what was happening, there's not a thing on Earth that could keep Bolton safe.

After all, it's not like Dad could imagine Robb _wanting_ such a thing.

“Forgive me, Mr. Stark.” Robb gasps once more when he feels the sentence breathed into his ear – the honourific a parody of itself. “I have much work to do.”

Robb looks back up. Bolton takes a step back, as impervious as ever. It's not as if he's particularly handsome. It's not as if he's particularly anything. He is, objectively speaking, a very nondescript man. All he is a body, and a force; someone to summon Robb to his side and indulge his worst desires, without ever forcing him to commit to them.

He must want something, and Robb will likely regret this all later – for years to come – but for now he's young and stupid, and makes his bad decisions.

“Of course, sir,” he says, swallowing hard, managing to keep his voice from shaking. Compared to Mr. Bolton, he must look a mess – his cheeks red, his hair plastered with sweat to his brow, his erection plainly visible through his trousers. People would have to be blind not to notice. “Excuse me.”

He's just about ready to turn and leave, when Bolton calls him back. “One moment.” Reluctantly, Robb tries to meet his eye once more. But Bolton isn't looking at him. He's walked over to the desk again, and fetched the folder. “You forgot this.” He offers it to Robb without raising his head.

Robb stops. Of course, the folder. He did not think of that. Still, he realises quickly why Bolton even offers it back in the first place – so he can cover himself up.

He takes it and none too subtly places it in front of his groin, before he opens the door and braces himself for the titters and raised eyebrows that his appearance should earn.

But that sound's not there. Just the photocopiers and the rain outside. The truth is, no-one's really paying attention.

 


End file.
